 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
303
BY THE SAD SEA WAVES
I was walking down on the sands one night
With the girl of my choice—the woman I loved;
And I picked up a shell on the pebbly strand,
And thought even thus shall my love be prov'd:
With the girl of my choice—the woman I loved;
And I picked up a shell on the pebbly strand,
And thought even thus shall my love be prov'd:
“Take this, dearest girl, for 't is like to me,”
Said I with a gesture of fond entreat;
“'Tis a stranger come from the changing sea
To languish and die at thy own dear feet!”
Said I with a gesture of fond entreat;
“'Tis a stranger come from the changing sea
To languish and die at thy own dear feet!”
She looked in my face in her scornful glee,
While her dainty foot beat the cold white sand,
“I will take the shell, but not you,” said she;
“He offers his house, you only your hand!”
While her dainty foot beat the cold white sand,
“I will take the shell, but not you,” said she;
“He offers his house, you only your hand!”
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |